


Bandaids Don't Fix Bullet Holes (But Punisher Does)

by 221Browncoat



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Frank cares, Frank is annoyed, Gen, Matt and Frank are reluctant allies, Matt is dumb, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8221132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Browncoat/pseuds/221Browncoat
Summary: I feel like the title is pretty self-explanatory. Daredevil gets shot. Punisher helps him out. Needless to say, there is Matt whump. Enjoy! Rating for the usual-violence and language. One-Shot, though I'll probably write a sequel at some point.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I actually don't know anything about body armor or armor piercing rounds or medical procedures besides what I learned from extensive Google searches, so pardon me if any of this is wildly inaccurate.

"Stay out of this, Frank," Matt growls. "It's my fight, not yours."

Frank snorts. "Sure, Red. Just figured I oughta let you know those shitheads are packing armor-piercing rounds."

"Yeah, and how would you know that?" Matt forces suspicion into his voice, even though he's almost certain that Frank wouldn't work with drug-dealing assholes.

"If you haven't noticed, I like guns. Pay attention, know some people, keep my eyes and ears open. I'm tellin' you, Red, armor-piercing. You get hit with one a those, you're gonna end up with a lot worse than some bruised ribs, hear me? So watch your ass."

"What do you care?" Matt says, knowing full-well how petty he sounds. He still just hasn't gotten used to the idea of having help from the guy that shot him in the head and chained him to a roof - literally chained, _in chains_.

"Did I say I care?" Frank retorts, and Matt could almost believe that he doesn't. "You wanna be a one-man army against some new drug ring, you be my guest. I ain't gonna stop you."

"You couldn't stop me if you wanted to." Matt knows that's not true, but he says it anyway. He's feeling petulant tonight.

Another snort. "Whatever you say, Red." He starts walking toward the door to the stairway down from the rooftop.

"Where are you going?"

"Not killing people, if that's what you're worried about," Frank says, his tone just shy of condescending.

"That's not an answer, Frank," Matt calls, but Frank is already gone. Matt sighs. He'd known the drug dealers would be armed to the teeth (as drug dealers were wont to be), but armor piercing rounds...Don't change a thing. Can't. The risk of dying is always there, always has been, and Matt hasn't let it stop him yet. Damned if he's gonna start now.

He runs silently across the rooftop and takes fire escapes down until he's on the ground, before running at a crouch to an alley a building away from the one where he knows the drug dealers and manufacturers to be.

He'd thought things were bad after the Russian and Chinese operations had been dismantled. Then Frank Castle took out the cartel, the Irish, even the damn Dogs of Hell, so with virtually no major competitors still in the ring, nasty small-timers were starting to come out of the woodworks. The ones Matt's currently dealing with are dealing in some sort of speed laced with PCP and who knows what else-a dangerous combination at best, and one that has already proven fatal at its worst, mostly for college kids, too young and too stupid to know what the hell it is they're taking. There's also a sixteen-year-old amongst the dead. A kid. Of course Matt won't let it stand.

He listens for a minute more. He doesn't want to rush in there, for lack of a better term, blind. So far he's counted six men, half of them armed. There are more weapons in the building, though. Not to mention the loads of drug-making materials. Matt is no chemist, but he imagines that some of the shit in there is probably volatile. So priority one is to disarm and disable. Once their weapons are gone, these guys should be easy.

He stands and runs to the other building. His heart's pounding, adrenaline coursing, preparing him for the upcoming fight. He takes careful, measured breaths. It's a balancing act-letting his body's fight-or-flight kick in without it clouding his senses and judgement. Meditation might be the best advice Stick's ever given him.

He approaches from the back, finding a side entrance that doesn't have anyone behind it. The door's not guarded and it's not locked, which would usually make Matt nervous except that he can smell the strange sickly-sweet of weed, which leads him to believe that they're even more inept than he'd initially thought. He smiles.

It's been too long since he had an easy night.

He slips into the building and shuts the door silently behind him. There are crates in stacks that go above his head, so he stands behind them as he gets a read on where exactly each person is. Three at a table, one of them scrambling around-cooking up a batch of the drug, probably-and two doing something more contained and repetitive. Packaging. The other three, the ones holding guns, are milling around somewhat aimlessly. Matt takes his billy club out of its place on his leg and gets to work.

He disarms and incapacitates the first two gunmen easily, the element of surprise on his side. The third one takes a little longer, and gets a few wild shots off and lands a few solid punches that may bruise later before Matt knocks him unconscious.

The two men who Matt suspected had been packing the drugs are standing with their hands up, trembling. Matt turns and one of them whimpers. The third man at the table has stopped moving, stiffened. Matt is about to say something along the lines of _put your hands up_ or _don't move_ when the man suddenly lashes a hand out then brings it back to his mouth, too fast for Matt to stop him.

_Shit._

"You two get out of here," Matt says to the two packagers, whose heart rates have increased dramatically. They hurry away just as the third man lets out a strange, guttural cry and starts taking loud, heaving breaths, and Matt's brain quickly runs through every filthy word in his vocabulary because _shit_ he took the drug.

Matt can sense it taking hold of the man-spike in heart-rate, slight drop in blood pressure, increased adrenaline and testosterone. And he knows courtesy of Sergeant Mahoney's notes from the coroner's office that the man's brain is being flooded with the drug, triggering the systematic shutdown of the inhibition and fear centers and blocking pain receptors. For the next couple hours, the guy's got the durability of Captain America and the disposition of the Hulk.

So much for an easy night.

Matt does well at first.

Correction: he...holds his own at first.

With no fear or hesitation, no pain, and the freak-strength that comes with adrenaline, the guy's a beast. Not fast, but powerful. The acrobatics Matt usually employs against ninjas, Russians, whatever-they aren't doing him much good now. The moves are faster, sure, harder for the drugged-up dude to track, but there's not enough _power_ behind the blows. Not enough to take the monster down, anyhow. Matt can hit harder when he goes back to what he knows best, back to what he learned from Battlin' Jack.

" _Keep that stance strong, Matty. Harder for 'em to take you down if you've got a strong stance."_

Yeah. Harder, sure. But the dude's freaking _gigantic._ It's everything Matt can do to keep from getting knocked on his ass anytime he's not fast enough to dodge the angry fists.

" _Elbows in, fists up. Gotta protect those ribs. Gotta protect that pretty face a yours. Don't want to end up with a broken mug like your old man."_

Speaking of broken and ribs, Matt thinks he just felt some ribs break. _Shit_ , this guy just will not go down. _Damned drug_. He's starting to tire, but the other guy has amphetamines and PCP and who-knows-what running through his system and he's not even breathing hard, hasn't even broken a sweat. Matt's doing less and less fighting and more and more _dodging_ and forget taking this guy down, Matt'll be lucky to get out alive.

"Stand! _Still_!" the guy shouts, and it's the first time he's spoken. His voice is about as deep and gravelly as one would expect from such a 'roided up brute, and Matt finds that he's almost surprised that the guy can talk.

And he most certainly does not stand still.

He's good at dodging the fists/elbows/feet flying at him. Hell, maybe he'll just spar with the guy until he comes down off the high, _then_ beat him unconscious and leave him for the cops to find.

Matt dodges a sloppy haymaker, ducking and rolling to one side. When he stands back up, though, the man has a gun and he tightens his finger on the trigger, and even Daredevil can't dodge a bullet.

Turns out, Frank was right.

He feels it before he hears it, a dull pain, and _hot_ , as the bullet pierces oh so much more than armor, carving a path through his torso. Matt is surprised at the heat of it, though he shouldn't be, really. He knows how guns work, enough to know that metal moving that fast with that much force is going to scorch. But when he'd imagined being shot (morbid, yes, but not surprising that he'd thought about it, given his line of work) he'd pictured it as similar to a stab wound, or an arrow, maybe. Cold. Sharp. But this, this is heavy and _deep_ , and he can feel the bullet where it's burrowed itself into his body, where it's sitting and smoldering, and he really just wants it to be _out_ , but also there's the more immediate problem of a super strong, super high drug manufacturer pointing a gun at his head.

"Y'know," the drugged man says, and as he continues, Matt can hear the slight slur in his speech. "You busted in here, I thought _shit_ , this is gonna be the worst night of my life! But now, _now_ I get to be the one to kill the Daredevil. Slow as I like."

Matt knows the handle of the gun is coming toward his head, but as much as he wants to dodge it, his body isn't responding very well to commands. He manages to move, but it still clips him in the temple, enough to send him to the floor. He gasps as the bullet shifts inside him.

The man laughs. "That hurt? Don't worry, I'm not gonna shoot you again, probably. That'd be too fast, and I reckon I have 'til sunrise."

A foot flies toward Matt's face, and he rolls in time to avoid it only _damn it_ that makes the bullet move some more and the World on Fire flickers. He can't move the next time, and he yells as the foot runs into the hole in his side. He almost passes out. Almost wishes he _would_. Another kick, and another, and Matt is pissed as hell that he's gonna be beaten to death.

And that's when he notices the other heartbeat-not one of the quiet, rhythmic ones from the unconscious men, or the wild, reckless one from the druggie. A different heartbeat altogether: a strong, steady thump. One that evokes images of blood and bone. One that, for once, Matt is actually relieved to hear.

The gunshot is loud, deep, hollow-very different from the gunshot that hit him. The blows stop, and all Matt can smell is blood. All he can hear is the heartbeat that isn't there anymore.

"Frank," Matt gasps and he can practically hear Frank roll his eyes.

"Hey, don't give me any of that shit. Bullet to the head was the only thing that was gonna stop that guy, that drug running through his system. I coulda just let him beat you to death, or get bored and shoot you in the head, and then run around Hell's Kitchen doing the same to civies until the drug wore off. You want me to do that next time?"

Matt pushes himself to his feet, grunting at the effort and leaning against the wall for support. Even then, he's bent over at the middle and panting and damn if getting shot doesn't take it out of you. He turns his head in the Punisher's direction. "Actually, I was going to say thank you." He resists the urge to add something snarky.

Frank's silent for a moment, then, "We're gonna have to get you to your place. Mine's too far, you'd probably bleed out before we got there."

Matt's definitely not planning on letting Frank Castle know anything about his personal life, gunshot wound be damned. He shakes his head. "No. No way."

"I'm not gonna argue with you, Red. Let's go."

"I said no, Frank. You may not care that everyone knows you're the Punisher, but I can't let people know who I am. I've made a lot of enemies, and if any of them were to find out who I am under the mask, everyone I care about would be in danger."

"Well, I've kept it a secret so far, counselor." Frank says it nonchalantly, as though he didn't just reveal that he knows the secret identity of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

Matt feels like he's just been kicked in the chest (which, technically he has been-it's that feeling, but from the inside). "Wh-what? How did you-"

"We'll talk about it later if you really want to, Red. You're still walking and talking, so I don't think the bullet hit anything important, but that don't mean you're fine. 'specially not after a beating like that. I was serious about you bleedin' out. We've gotta get you somewhere I can patch you up."

"I can manage myself." So Frank knows Matt's the Daredevil. Doesn't mean he knows where Matt lives. Or that he ought to.

"You ever removed a bullet?"

Matt's mind is still racing and he has a lot of questions but also he's starting to feel the early effects of blood-loss, even through the lingering adrenaline. A sigh. Resignation. "Fine. But this is the only time you're allowed at my apartment."

"Not sure why the hell else you think I'd go there. You're startin' to tremble, Red. You gettin' shocky?"

Matt had thought it was the coming down off the adrenaline making him shake, but now that Frank mentions it, he is starting to feel a little cold-an unhealthy, inside kind of cold. "Yeah, I think you may be right. We should get going."

Frank looks at him sharply. "Yeah, that's what I've been saying, Red. You die before we get there, it's your own damn fault and I'm leaving your stupid ass in the gutter."

Matt straightens up, wincing and forcing down the accompanying groan as he clamps a hand over his side. "That's fair."

"Can you walk?"

"I wasn't shot in the leg, Frank."

Frank makes an odd sound, and it's so out of place that it takes Matt a moment to realize that it was a chuckle. "You're kinda mouthy, kid." The larger man walks over to Matt and grabs his right arm-the one that isn't holding onto the bullet wound-and drapes it over his shoulders.

Matt lets out a hiss of pain as the movement pulls on his torso and the hole that's in it. Frank's other arm has wound its way around Matt's waist. They take a slow, experimental step, and Matt's legs almost collapse under him.

"Easy, Red. Easy," Frank murmurs, tightening his grip a little and keeping Matt on his feet. Matt wants to push him away, tell him to go screw himself, but he knows there's no way he'd get back to his apartment on his own. Plus there's that whole thing with the metal slug being in his body. "How long you been doin' this?"

The question comes out of nowhere, and Matt is startled. He hadn't taken Frank Castle for the small-talk type. "Thought you didn't care."

"I don't. But I don't know how to get to your place, and I sure as shit don't wanna carry you there. Which mean you stay gotta stay walking, which means you gotta stay conscious. Talking with someone's a pretty good way to keep someone awake."

Matt heaves a sigh. He realizes Frank probably knows that from his time in the service, that he's reaching out to Matt like he would a fellow soldier. Even for a guy like Frank- _especially_ for a guy like Frank-that means something. "Too long."

"That's not an answer, Red."

The irony is not lost on Matt. He doesn't feel like talking, but he knows Frank is right. "Started training right after the accident that blinded me when I was nine. The actual crime fighting, though, didn't start until a little after college."

"You've been at it awhile. A lot longer than me, that's for damn sure. And I'm pretty sure you ain't fakin' being blind. Unless you're one hell of a good actor. How do you do it?"

Matt grimaces. 'Cus he hasn't been answering _that_ question enough lately. "The stuff that got in my eyes, that blinded me...heightened my other senses. I use all of those combined to...to create a sort of...mental picture, in my head. I can feel out a room, know that size of it, what's in it and where."

"Huh," Frank says. "So it's almost like...what's that called...echolocation? Like bats use?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"So why don't you call yourself Batman?" He says it deadpan. No indication that he's joking.

Matt snorts. "Are you...are you kidding me? You ever been in a comic book store?"

"Why the hell would I go in a comic book store?" Frank almost sounds offended.

"Well, Batman…" Matt has to stop talking to catch a breath. "...is already taken." His feet are starting to drag. He's getting tired. He says as much to Frank. To his surprise, he hears a slight jump in the man's heartbeat. Just a small one, but there. _Is he worried_?

"Well, you can't rest. Not yet. How much further?"

Usually getting home would be easy, but Matt's at half-strength at best so they have to stay at ground level, weaving through side streets and back alleys rather than leaping rooftops.

"'bout two blocks." It's not far, not really, but when he says it aloud the distance seems insurmountable. He must be putting more weight on Frank, because he feels himself getting hauled up a little.

"C'mon, Red. Two more blocks ain't nothin'. You can go two more blocks." Frank's pretty good at masking it, but Matt can hear the slight urgency in his voice. The concern.

Of course, Matt can't let Frank know that he knows. He casts the other man a sour look."Yeah, yeah. It's almost dawn. We should...we should pick up the pace."

Frank walks a little faster-which gets them to slightly above a snail's pace-and Matt stumbles along, his feet increasingly clumsy. Everything feels so _heavy_.

"You've learned to fight from at least two different people," Frank says suddenly, and Matt's startled by the shift in conversation, and the astuteness of the observation.

"How d'you know?"

"Well, I've fought with you. I've seen you fight. You do all the fancy martial arts stuff, with the flips and the rolls...But I've also seen you get into more of a boxing stance, fightin' with your fists like you've been in a ring before. And I doubt one guy taught you both those techniques."

Matt's taken aback. Frank may not know anything about comic books, but he clearly knows his way around weapons and fighting, which, now that he thinks about it, makes sense. "Yeah, you're right. The martial arts...I learned that from a blind old man. We take a left here. The boxing came from my dad. 'Battlin' Jack Murdock.'"

Frank lets out a puff of air that's almost a laugh. "No shit. Battlin' Jack? I went to one of his fights as a kid."

A smile pulls at the corner of Matt's mouth. The night's been full of surprises.. "You...you watched my dad?"

"Yeah, he got his ass handed to 'im. Guess that runs in the family, huh?"

"'nother left here," Matt puffs, grimacing when the bullet wound twinges. "And yeah. Yeah, I'd...I'd say it does. I, uh...I don't get...get _paid_ for it, though."

"He was throwin' fights? Shit. I always knew he was a good fighter, ya know. You think you woulda been a boxer? You know, if you hadn't had chemicals splashed in your eyes?"

Matt lets out a soft chuckle. "No. No, he never would've allowed it. Wanted...he wanted more from me." He figures the blood loss must be getting to him, because he's saying a lot more than he wanted to. _So much for not letting Frank know anything about his personal life._ Good thing they've finally reached his apartment building. "Down this alley. The last, uh, last staircase on the...the right. Door's open."

"Last staircase on the right...The one across from the bright-ass billboard?"

Matt nods slightly. He doesn't want to expend any more energy than he has to. He can't afford it, if he wants to make it up those steps. It's slow-going, and grueling. One foot on the step. Rest. Other foot on the step. Rest. He's so damn _tired_. Frank is remarkably patient, though. He doesn't even seem upset when Matt collapses at the top of the steps. Instead, he just reaches over him to open the door. It swings inward, and Matt falls in after it.

Frank grabs him under the arms, shifting him so he can close the door, before returning to his side.

"Can you make it down these stairs?" he asks. Honestly, Matt isn't sure he can. But he's not entirely without pride.

"Yes, Frank, I can…" He stops for a breath. _Boy_ , talking takes a lot of effort. "I can make is down th' damn stairs." He still has his pride, but it's not so strong that he denies Frank's outstretched hand. The bullet hole screams in complaint as his gut muscles tighten. His voice wants to join in, but he clenches his jaw and forces it back. The pain makes him dizzy, and he must pass out, because the next thing he knows, he's lying on his back and Frank is tapping on his face.

"'m awake," Matt mumbles, at the same time he realizes that Frank must have carried him down the stairs.

So much for his pride.

"I need thread and a needle and some alcohol," Frank says. Words of a man who's used to patching himself up with whatever he has lying around. Luckily, Matt has friends in...well, in places.

"There's a...a military grade first-aid kit. In that closet." Matt points in the direction he's pretty sure the closet is in. He's feeling unusually disoriented."Alcohol's in the kitchen."

"Where the hell did you get this?" Frank asks, dropping the bag next to Matt with a _thunk_ before walking away, presumably to get the alcohol.

"A friend," Matt answers, and leaves it at that. She hadn't talked much about it, but Matt knows that Claire had gotten acquainted with another vigilante recently, and she probably wouldn't care to know a third.

"A friend." Frank repeats from the kitchen. He doesn't sound wholly convinced. "Well, if I'm gonna patch you up, you're gonna need to get out of that ridiculous outfit."

Matt groans. Getting the outfit off was a lot of work on a good day (more than he'd care to admit), and damn near impossible on a bad one.

And this is a very, very bad one. He works as quickly as he can, like taking off a band-aid but more painful and difficult. He pulls it down from his head, shoulders and arms, and chest and stops. Blood has crusted around the wound, sealing to his outfit, and he really doesn't feel like trying to peel it away. He gives the fabric above the wound an experimental tug and immediately pulls his hand away, hissing in pain.

"Are you gonna do it, or 'm I gonna have to?" Frank says, by Matt's side once more.

" _I've got it_ ," Matt says, and it comes out angrier than he means it to be. Not that he'd hurt Frank's feelings. He's not sure Frank even _has_ feelings, not anymore. He sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and pulls his suit down to his waist. His eyes water and a sound escapes his throat; it's everything he can do not to scream, and the pain leaves him panting and breathless.

"Okay, let's see," Frank mutters, his fingers touching Matt's side with more gentleness than he'd have thought possible. When he talks again, it's mostly to himself. "No exit wound, bullet _is_ still in there then." His fingers suddenly prod at the area around the wound, much less gently than before, and Matt lets out a yelp, weakly smacking at Frank's hand. "Easy, Red! Just take it easy."

Matt wants to punch Frank in the face. _Easy_ , he keeps saying, as if Matt has ever had anything easy in his life. It pisses him off. "No-nothing about this situation is-is _easy_!" Matt's words are running together now, and he's not sure Frank even knows what he's saying. He doesn't know if _he_ knows what he's saying. He pushes weakly against Frank's shoulder.

Frank grabs Matt's wrist and pushes his arm away. "You think I don't know that, Red? I _know_ this shit ain't easy. I've taken out dozens of bullets, not _one_ of them was easy! But it's gonna be worse for both of us if you act out. You got me? Now what blood type are you?"

Matt frowns at the question. There's blood-he can feel it and he can smell it (oh, he can smell it)-but he's not sure what the type of blood has to do with anything. He's not even mad at Frank anymore, he's just tired…

A hand shakes his shoulder, and Matt lifts his head from where it was drooping against his chest (how had it gotten there?). "Wha?"

"What blood type, Red?"

_Red_. That sounds right. Matt repeats the word.

"Don't be a smartass!" Frank snaps. "I'm 'bout ready to pump you full of adrenaline and believe me, that is not as much fun as they make it look on TV. What. Blood type. Are you?"

Somewhere, something in Matt's brain clicks, and he mumbles, "A plus," though he's not sure what it means.

Frank makes a sound. His voice changes. "Good. That's good, Red. You need to lay back now. You're going into shock and I need to get this bullet out and get you stitched up."

_Shock_. Frank must be right, because besides a dull throb where there's a hole in his body that shouldn't be there, Matt's going frighteningly numb. He starts to lean back, trying to be careful, but the slight momentum and gravity work together and he's falling. A hand catches his head before it hits the ground and Frank says something that Matt doesn't hear.

Though, if he had to guess, he'd guess it was something like, _Easy Red._

Matt's senses are dulling, and for a while he has no idea what Frank is doing. He catches only snippets-the light clanking of metal here, the smell of alcohol there, the occasional mutter from Frank-but he can't interpret any of it. Pain is the only constant.

Pain brings him back to himself.

He doesn't even realize that he's screaming until he has to stop and take a breath, at which point he screams again because _shit_ it doesn't feel good to have someone digging around in his body.

"Easy, Red!"

_There it is again, damn him!_

He can feel the pliers Frank is using and they're going deeper and they're nowhere _near_ the bullet and oh, he wants to pass out right now but there's a lot of blood and he knows Frank needs to get the bullet out _now_ and _he's going the wrong way_ -

"Left!" Matt gasps, and the probing immediately stops.

"What?"

"The-the-" Why can't he _talk_ , damn it! "Bullet! To the-to the left!"

"You can feel the bullet?"

Matt nods. The pliers move left and Matt bites into his bottom lip until it bleeds. He unclenches his teeth for a moment. "Down, just a little, and deeper."

Frank's going the right way, now. "I can feel it," he says.

That's good enough for Matt. He lets the blackness take him.

XXX

He wakes up and immediately wishes he hadn't. Everything hurts. That's how it usually goes when he wakes up on his couch. He can feel three cracked ribs, bruises everywhere. Plus the hole in his body. The events of the night suddenly come back to him and he groans. Melvin's going to _kill_ him.

"Morning, sunshine," a voice says and Matt groans again because _Frank Castle is in his apartment_ (and using the same line he used on the rooftop, the smug bastard) _._

"What's in my arm?" Matt croaks in response, pulling his arm out from under the blanket that's somehow settled over him and gently running his fingers over the tubes at the inside of the opposite elbow.

"It's an IV. Leave it," Franks says.

Matt huffs in annoyance. "I know it's an IV, Frank. What's in it?"

"Blood."

Matt's fingers freeze as he lets that sink in. He turns his face in Frank's direction. "You gave me a transfusion?"

"We got a least one thing in common. We're the same blood type. You're lucky I asked. Once I got the bullet out, you started bleedin' all over. You were in shock by the time I got it stopped. You're almost through your second unit now. Your volume might still be a little low, but it should get your blood pressure close to where it usually is." He's very calm as he says all of this, and Matt imagines him sitting in a chair examining his fingernails.

Matt sits in thought for a moment. Claire had told him that removing a bullet outside of a hospital was pretty much a death sentence. And yet Frank, of all people-volatile, has been shot in the head _Frank_ \- seems to have managed. Matt's not dead yet, anyway. "You're, uh...you're pretty good at this stuff then?"

Frank lets out that chuckle again, harsh and without much humor. "Yeah, well, you can't see the stitches. I learned the basics overseas, was the unofficial medic when our doc couldn't be there or was busy workin' on someone else. Still can't stitch pretty, though. Don't go taking off that bandage, cus I ain't gonna fix it if you pop one of 'em."

"So you didn't just kill people when you were overseas," Matt says before he thinks. It's rude. He blames it on the fact that he's recently been shot and lost a lot of blood..

A pause. "Nope. Go back to sleep, Red. You're gonna need to rest if you want that thing to heal up any time soon."

Matt lets out a long sigh, shifting a little to try and get comfortable. "You know we're in my apartment now, you can call me Matt."

"Matt's that geeky lawyer who doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut. This-you, laid up on the couch with a GSW, _my blood_ getting pumped into your body-that's not Matt Murdock. That's the Daredevil."

Matt sighs again, this time out of annoyance. "Why does everyone think those are two different people? They're not."

"If you weren't in the suit, if you were in the middle of town in broad daylight with your glasses and cane, would you get in a fist fight with a criminal?"

Matt frowns. "No, but-"

"And if you _were_ in the suit. Would you go to confession? Would you head down to Josie's for a drink?"

"No, but I-"

"You're the same person, but you're not," Frank says.

A sudden stab of pain steals Matt's breath away and he gasps, letting out a groan as soon as his lungs manage to inflate again.

"You need something for the pain?" Frank asks.

"No. No. I'll be-I'll be okay," Matt breathes.

"Right. Catholic. Well, if you change your mind there's a bottle of pills on the floor next to your hand. Two bottles, actually. The one on the right is for the pain, the one on the left is an antibiotic. You should take that one. And there's a bottle of water. To wash 'em down."

Matt is realizing how very little he knows about Frank Castle, how much of his opinion of the man is based off of a single court case and some fights. He hadn't put much thought into who the man was _before_. The fact that he could still be that man, at least partially. He swallows.

"I-I'm not...thank you, Frank. For everything. I didn't get to say that after what you did for me that night. The night when-"

"I know the one."

Matt nods, grateful that Frank understands. That he's not making Matt talk about it. "Anyway, I'm saying it now. I would've died last night if not for you. So. Thanks."

Frank shrugs. "Yeah, whatever. I got better shit to do today than sitting around keeping an eye on your sorry ass. The IV's done, so I'll take care of that, then I'm outta here." A second later, Frank is next to Matt, sliding the needle out of his arm and pressing a cotton ball in its place, which he secures with medical tape. "You should stay on this couch for the rest of the day, the rest of the _week_ probably. That wound's gonna take time. You go too fast, you pop those stitches and risk bleeding out. You go _out there_ too fast, the least of the criminals you fight's gonna be able to kick your ass six ways from Sunday and leave you dead in the gutter. I ain't doin' this again. Maybe call that lawyer friend of yours, Froggy or whatever. Or Karen. Or maybe whoever it is gave you those medical supplies. Just-don't...don't make that shit worse. I see you out at night any time soon and I'll kick your ass myself. Clear?"

"Yeah, sure Frank," Matt responds, being an ass for the hell of it.

"I'm serious," Frank continues, walking toward the door, backwards so he's still facing Matt.

"Fine, Frank. I'll take it easy. But I'm not promising anything past two weeks." Matt says it, even though he's pretty sure he's going to be staying in for at least a month.

"If you die, don't say I didn't warn you," Frank says, and heads for the door.

"Wait." Matt's voice stops him in his tracks. "You never told me how you knew."

"Had my suspicions in the hospital room. Way you talked, way you held yourself. I knew for sure in court, the way you talked about vigilante justice or whatever. No one talks that passionately about a thing he ain't a part of." Frank takes a deep breath. "You know, if I figured it out, might be others that do too. Be careful, Red." And then he's gone, slamming the door behind him.

Matt sighs, his fingers making their way to the edge of the bandage, hovering just above the bullet wound in his side. Frank is right. There are people out there who want the Daredevil dead. There are people that want Matt Murdock the lawyer dead. He has to be careful, he has to be alert, and has to start finishing fights for good.

He'll call Melvin in a few days, see about getting the suit patched up. For now though, he just has to take some antibiotics and sleep. He pulls the blankets up under his chin and closes his eyes with a sigh.

He doesn't even get to the antibiotics part.


End file.
